For long moments, Portia simply allowed herself to enjoy the heat and magic of his touch. After being alone for so long, she would never take the pleasure of Fredrick’s touch for granted. And much to her astonishment, she found being in the dark, cramped confines of the linen closet, while the servants passed just a few yards away, oddly erotic.
Then, as his fingers brushed tenderly over her flushed cheeks she forced herself to pull back.
She did not trust this strange mood of his. “Fredrick?”
“I hate this,” he muttered as he rested his forehead against hers.
“Kissing me?”
“God, no.” His hands lightly framed her face, his warm breath brushing over her skin. “I hate that we must hide in a linen closet just so I can kiss you.”
“You knew that I could not risk a scandal ...”
“I hate those idiots who ruined a perfectly wonderful morning,” he continued in a low, fierce voice.
Her heart gave a painful jerk. “Yes.”
“I hate that no matter what I achieve in my life I will always be a bastard who is scorned by society.” His fingers tightened on her countenance. “And that just by being at the Queen’s Arms you have been tainted as well.”
She reached up to grasp his forearms, wishing that he could see her frown. “Balderdash,” she snapped in annoyance.
“Balderdash?”
“Yes. I think that I would know if I had been tainted.”
He made a frustrated sound deep in his throat. “God, I just wish we were far away from here, poppet. Somewhere that we could forget everything but being together.”
A poignant longing touched her own heart. Oh yes. To be alone with Fredrick—far from the inn and those who knew either one of them—it would be paradise.
It was also an impossible dream.
“I ...”
“I am certain she came this way.” The intrusive sound of Molly’s voice floated through the door, followed by the thud of footsteps. “Maybe she went to the kitchens.”
Portia heaved a sigh. Paradise seemed very far away.
“I must go.”
Fredrick’s fingers briefly tightened before they abruptly dropped away. “Of course you must.”
Feeling oddly chilled as he stepped away, Portia instinctively reached out in the dark to clutch at his arm.
“Fredrick?”
“What?”
“Are you ...” She was forced to halt and swallow the lump in her throat. “Are you leaving with your friend?”
“Ian is traveling with me today to Winchester.”
“You will return tonight, will you not?”
There was a short pause before he heaved a deep sigh. “I will keep my rooms here, but I think it would be best if I remain in Winchester for the next few days.”
“No, Fredrick ...”
“Portia, I am doing this for you,” he said, the certainty in his tone warning Portia that he had made his decision and nothing would alter his mind.
Her lingering annoyance deepened. Damnation. There were times when this gentleman could be just as thick-skulled, illogical, and downright idiotic as any other man.
Wishing she was large enough to give him a good shaking, Portia was forced to content herself with brushing past his stiff form and yanking open the door to the closet.
“Because I, of course, cannot possibly know what is best for me?” she accused as she stepped into the hall and headed directly for the kitchen.
“It is not that ... damn you, Portia.”
“Have a safe journey, Mr. Smith.”
The scenery about Winchester was hardly the most famous, or the most dramatic in England. There was little more to boast of than quiet streams that ran through thick forests and heaths. As well as an occasional village spread across a pretty parkland.
The more whimsical might take to heart the stories of Arthur’s Roundtable that was once believed to be hidden at Winchester’s Great Hall and consider the area somewhat magical, but most were wise enough to accept (and some to even appreciate) that its days of glory were nicely in the past.
Despite its lack of spectacular mountains or cliffs or looming castles, however, it did have a placid beauty that was quite undeserving of the fierce scowl that Fredrick Smith was currently bestowing upon it.
Riding at his side, Ian at last flashed him an aggravated glance, weary of the brooding silence and deep sighs worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy.
“I must warn you, Fredrick, that you are not the most scintillating companion under the best of circumstances,” he drawled. “When you are in this surly mood you are downright tedious.”
With a small jerk, Fredrick pulled himself from his brown-study to meet his friend’s sardonic smile.
“Forgive me, Ian. Would you prefer that I sing a jig or do a bit of juggling to keep you entertained?” he demanded, his nerves still raw. It had been one hell of a day thus far. And not likely to improve if he were to spend the next few nights in Winchester rather than in the arms of Mrs. Portia Walker.
“You could tell me of your Portia,” Ian said, his gaze absently lingering upon a buxom dairy maid who leaned against a nearby fence.
Fredrick smiled wryly. His friend’s gaze was always lingering upon one female or another. His gaze, however, like his attention, rarely lingered for long.
“Unfortunately she is not mine,” he muttered, his own gaze staring aimlessly down the narrow road that led toward Winchester. It was a beautiful morning for a ride. The sun shining, the breeze still cool, but not unpleasant, and the crocuses just coming into bloom.
With a last smile that sent the dairy maid to her knees, Ian turned his head to stab his companion with a searching gaze.
“Do you want her to be?”
“I think ...” Fredrick sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to acknowledge the truth that had been fermenting in the back of his mind. “Yes, I think I do.”
“Good God.”
He gave a lift of his brows as Ian nearly tumbled from his saddle. “Why is that so shocking? Even you must admit that she is uncommonly beautiful.”
“Without a doubt,” Ian readily agreed. Too readily. “She is one of the most beautiful women that I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Fredrick resisted the urge to warn his companion. For all his faults Ian would never poach on a friend’s territory. It was an unspoken rule that the three of them had upheld no matter what the temptation.
Which was no doubt one of the prime reasons the three were still friends after all these years, he acknowledged with a faint flare of amusement.
“Then why your surprise, Ian?”
The dark-haired gentleman shrugged, his expression pensive. “When you spoke of your perfect woman I always supposed that she would be a meek and biddable sort of female who would provide you with a mob of brats and keep your house in order. I did not suspect you had a taste for exotic angels with a dictatorial nature.”
Fredrick’s smile widened. “It is even worse than you know, my friend.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh yes, she not only demands to be in charge of everything and everyone about her, but she has a habit of collecting unsavory strays, from smugglers to prostitutes.” He gave a resigned shake of his head. “Anyone foolish enough to take her on will be stuck with an endless parade of worthy causes.”
Ian gave a sudden laugh. “Actually, she is probably just the female for you, now that I think upon it. She will fuss over your employees who, even you cannot deny, are odd, reclusive creatures. And hopefully make sure that you recall to eat your vegetables and to dress warmly when the wind is chill.” He tilted his dark head to one side. “And there is no doubt that any children the two of you produce will be insufferably beautiful. Yes, it is obviously a good match. You have my blessing.”
On the point of making a flippant retort, Fredrick abruptly halted his words, the memory of the ugly scene at the inn returning with a vengeance.
“Perhaps not that great a match,�
� he admitted, his heart unpleasantly heavy. “At least not for her.”
“Ah, I recognize that tone.” Ian narrowed his gaze. “What is troubling you?”
“Portia has ... suffered over the years.”
“Who has not?”
“She has suffered more than any young woman should have,” Fredrick insisted, knowing that there were still dark secrets Portia did not feel comfortable confessing. “I cannot help but wonder if she would not be better served if I were to walk away and leave her to enjoy her peaceful existence.”
Ian’s brows snapped together. “What the devil are you babbling about?”
Fredrick slowed his mount, carefully considering his words. “Until this morning I never truly considered what my lack of pedigree would mean to my wife and family.”
Ian made a rude sound. “Bloody hell, Fredrick, you cannot allow a herd of mincing jackasses to trouble you.”
“Jackasses or not, they only said what others will always be thinking.” He caught and held the golden gaze. “I am a bastard.”
“A bastard who has acquired a fortune greater than half those grand aristocrats rattling around London. And a bastard with the ear of some of the most influential politicians in the country.” Ian smiled with an expression of wicked satisfaction. “If you truly desired to wield your power I do not doubt you could force those three dandies to beg on their knees for your forgiveness.”
Fredrick did not bother to argue. He could make them beg if he wished to go to the effort, he supposed. Over the years he had managed to acquire the sort of fortune and connections guaranteed to punish those foolish enough to treat him with less than respect.
Still, there was no amount of money or connections that could completely remove the stigma of his birth.
“And yet I shall never be able to move among respectable society,” he muttered.
“Is that what Mrs. Walker desires? To be a member of the ton?”
“It is where she was born to be.” The image of Portia swathed in silk dancing through an elegant ballroom flared through his mind. Good Lord, she would bring society to its knees. “It is where she should be.”
“That does not answer my question.”
Fredrick shrugged. “She claims that she has no interest in London society.”
“And what of you?”
“Me?”
“Does she have an interest in you?”
A small smile touched his lips. “I believe there is a measure of interest.”
“Then you have nothing to fret over.”
Portia refused to pout as Fredrick collected his horse from the stables two hours later and rode off without so much as a good-bye.
She could not expect that he would always be reasonable. He was a man, after all. And his encounter with the hateful noblemen had obviously rattled his usual good sense. Perhaps it would be for the best that he had time in Winchester with his friend.
And if there was a deep, aching fear that he truly might not return to the Queen’s Arms, Portia firmly refused to dwell upon it. Or at least she refused to dwell upon it after she had snuck into his rooms and assured herself that he had left behind the greatest share of his belongings.
She was just slipping from his rooms when she noticed Quinn working at the end of the hallway. Curious, she strolled down to stand at his side, a rueful smile touching her lips as she realized that he had replaced the pulley that was attached to the small lift the servants used to haul water and dinner trays from the kitchen below with a much more complicated design. One of Fredrick’s designs.
“There we are,” Quinn at last muttered, stepping back to give Portia room to study his handiwork. “Give it a go and see if it works.”
“Really, Quinn ...”
“Give it a go, luv,” he insisted.
Knowing she was only wasting her breath in chastising the older man for having once again made alterations without her permission, Portia reached out her hand and gave a tug on the thick rope that was attached to the wooden shelf. Her eyes widened in shock as the light touch sent the shelf flying upward without the slightest hitch.
“Good heavens.”
“Easier to pull, is it not?” Quinn demanded smugly.
“Much easier.” She gave a wondering shake of her head. She did not understand the various wheels and pulleys, but she did know that it was a vast improvement to the old system. “Molly will be delighted.”
“Aye, she will. That Mr. Smith is rather a clever chap.” Quinn flashed a knowing grin. “Just like a magpie, always fussing and fixing at his nest.”
“Actually it happens to be my nest he continues to fuss and fix,” she pointed out dryly.
“A sight better, eh?”
Well, of course it was a sight better, she wryly acknowledged. Mr. Fredrick Smith possessed an uncanny genius for seeing beyond the mundane to the magical.
A visionary, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. A dream-maker.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“As are ye.”
She turned to regard her old friend with a lift of her brows. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have never seen ye smile so much as ye have the past few days.” He gently patted her shoulder. “Perhaps Mr. Smith has a talent for fixing more than gadgets.”
Her heart flopped in her chest as she gave an instinctive shake of her head. Fredrick had brought a brief, unexpected joy to her life that she would never forget. But she was not foolish enough to believe it was anything but a passing interlude.
She had endured too many disappointments to set herself up for another.
“Quinn ...”
“Mrs. Walker.”
The sound of Molly’s voice floated from the bottom of the stairs and with a faint grimace at the disturbance, Portia moved to peer down at the young maid.
“Yes, Molly, what is it?”
“Ye have a gent wanting to speak with you.”
“Very well. Take him to the back salon. I will be down in just a moment.”
Absently smoothing her hands down her plain grey skirt, Portia was on the point of heading down the stairs when Quinn reached out to grasp her arm.
“Wait until I can clean meself up a bit. I will be going with you.”
She regarded Quinn in puzzlement until she at last realized the cause for his odd behavior.
Obviously he feared the gentleman wanting to speak with her had some connection to the elegant buffoons who had created a disturbance earlier in the day.
She resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “That is not necessary.”
His expression settled into lines that revealed he intended to be utterly unreasonable.
“I did not say it was necessary, I merely said that I was going with ye,” he growled in warning. “If ye do not wish to wait then I will go in all me dirt.”
“Why is everyone suddenly so certain that I am incapable of caring for my own inn?”
“Ye are perfectly capable, as ye well know, but if there is to be trouble I will not have ye facing it alone.” A sly smile touched his lips. “Mr. Smith would have me head on a platter.”
“This is absurd, Quinn—”
“I will be no more than the shake of a peacock tail,” the older man interrupted as he stomped down the stairs.
“In the shake of a what?” Following in his trail, Portia gave a lift of her hands, wondering what the devil had happened to her unshakable authority. “Dammit. Mr. Fredrick Smith has a great deal to answer for.”
Pacing the downstairs hall, Portia discovered that the shake of a peacock tail took approximately a quarter of an hour. That, at least, was the length of time it took for Quinn to return with his face washed and his hair combed. Offering him a sour glance, Portia thrust open the door to the back salon and stepped over the threshold.
Pausing to study the slender male form that was standing near the window, Portia instinctively pinned a smile to her lips. She possessed an experienced enough eye to recognize the expensive cut of the mu
lberry jacket and champagne gloss of his boots.
A gentleman of means. A great deal of means.
Stepping forward with a brisk professionalism, Portia was barely aware of Quinn halting at the door as her guest slowly turned to face her. Her breath tangled in her throat, her feet coming to an unconscious halt as she caught sight of the delicate features.
Good Lord. The man looked exactly like Fredrick.
Thankfully unaware of her shock, the gentleman moved toward the center of the room and regarded her with a quizzical expression.
“Mrs. Walker?”
“Yes.” Portia struggled to gather her rattled composure. “Yes, I am Mrs. Walker. May I be of assistance?”
“I am Lord Graystone.”
“Graystone. Fredrick’s father ...” she muttered before she could halt the words.
“Yes.” A small, wistful smile touched his lips. “Your maid said that he had left for the day?”
“He went to Winchester, although I do expect him back.”
“Ah.”
“Is there a message that I can give to him?”
Lord Graystone turned away, but not before Portia managed to catch sight of the pain that flared in his pale eyes. A pain that wrenched at Portia’s heart.
Good God, it was so deep, so terribly profound. As if it came from his very soul.
“I heard there was ... trouble here this morning,” he muttered, his slender body stiff with suppressed emotions.
Portia’s smothered a rueful smile. She had learned never to be surprised by how swiftly gossip could travel through the neighborhood.
Of course, it was rather startling that Lord Graystone would have scurried to the inn after learning that Fredrick had been accosted. After all, the boorish aristocrats had deliberately sought out Fredrick because they were friends with Lord Graystone’s legitimate son, Simon.
“There was a minor skirmish,” she admitted cautiously.
“Fredrick was not hurt, was he?”
There was no mistaking the edge of anxiety in his voice. “No,” Portia reassured him. “I can safely assure you that he is in excellent health. Not so much as a blackened eye.”
Deborah Raleigh Page 17